


sharing a drink

by kiden



Series: still care about mixtapes [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Flirting with coffee, M/M, Pre-Slash, Steve Rogers-centric, ambiguous timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-18 19:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiden/pseuds/kiden
Summary: In a seven block radius around the tower there are eight Starbucks. Steve gets his coffee elsewhere.





	sharing a drink

The kitchen in the living quarters of Avengers tower has cappuccino and espresso machines. There are over a dozen different types of coffee beans, different roasts and flavors imported from all over the world, and a grinder next to the microwave. There’s always five different types of sweeteners stocked. Three different types of cow’s milk, half and half, along with soy, oat, and almond milks. Sometimes there’s even coconut milk.

In a seven block radius around the tower there are eight Starbucks. 

After his morning run, Steve gets his coffee from a nearby deli. It’s a little watery, and Gustavo always puts just a little too much sugar and not enough milk, but Steve likes it anyway. Enjoys the routine of it. The easy small talk. He gets his coffee and the Times, a few dozen bagels and a tub of cream cheese for the morning security shift, and makes his way back home. 

To get teased mercilessly for his bland, Depression Era palate. Just like everything else the team ribs him about, they all know it’s mostly, almost completely untrue, but it’s part of the routine and Steve doesn’t mind. No matter what they think about him, he grew up in Brooklyn. With  _ Bucky _ . And the best way to show someone you love them is to verbally harass them at all times, but especially before the sun is up. 

Maybe they know that, though. Maybe that’s why they do it. Every day he feels a little closer to them, to being part of a family, to being  _ home _ .

But his day - his entire  _ life -  _ is thrown for a loop on a normal Tuesday morning. When he’s just sitting at the kitchen island with the paper and his coffee, watching the sun slowly crawl up from the horizon, chasing away the grey morning and glittering across the city. The elevator doors open with a gentle  _ whoosh  _ sound, and Tony steps out looking about three days into a bout of inspiration. 

His hair is a mess, curlier than usual and sticking up at wild angles. The rings under his eyes are a dark, deep blue, and the natural rosiness of his cheeks has been replaced sunken, ashy look. He’s definitely not drinking enough water, and Steve makes a note to talk to JARVIS about setting up reminders. Maybe once every two hours would do. 

“Morning, Cap,” Tony says, and then does the unthinkable. 

As he passes the island, he swipes Steve’s watery deli coffee. Steve watches Tony, somewhat bewildered, as he drains half the to-go cup while grabbing handfuls of coffee beans and shoving them with little thought into the grinder. It’s nothing, really. Tony generally acts like everything, everywhere, belongs to him. He can touch, fiddle with, rewire, and take anything he wants. 

But there’s something  _ different _ about this. 

It’s casual and comfortable, and Steve realizes with a jolt, something  _ intimate  _ about it. 

He says, “Jesus. This is terrible. How do you drink this everyday?” then finishes the cup. 

And Steve finds he can’t do anything else but keep watching. 

Tony makes a fresh pot of coffee and it smells heavenly. Rich and dark and bitter, in the very best way, the scent filling up the room until it’s full. He turns away into one of the cabinets, just enough that Steve can’t see what he’s doing, even when he lifts up a little trying to get a look. 

His fingers rub at the corner of the newspaper in front of him until the paper thins and disappears. 

And then Tony is back, sliding the to-go cup back exactly where it was. 

“Tony -” 

“No lectures about respecting people’s space, or property, or specifically their cheap coffee,” he says, running a hand through his hair until it’s sticking straight up. “Drink.” 

It’s not just the warmth of the coffee - which is at the perfect temperature, because of course it is. It’s warm because Steve can see his mother standing at their tiny stove with her aluminum percolator, making herself coffee in the predawn, her hair still wrapped, telling him to rub the sleep out of his eyes and get ready for school. The memory is so clear, so absolutely perfect, he has to take another sip just to keep himself from looking up at Tony. 

Of course, Tony sees what he’s trying to hide anyway. He always seems to. 

“The secret is condensed milk. That’s why it… tastes. Like that.” 

Steve knows he’s, well,  _ known  _ for the way he speaks, sometimes. How grand he can sound. His big sweeping speeches. The finality and confidence in even the way he says good morning. But when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is - 

“ _ Tony _ .”

Even to his own ears he sounds shaky and uncertain and completely thrown. 

“I bought a case. You know how much the coffee budget is? Just  _ drink the coffee _ . You can still chit-chat with Gustavo about the day’s headlines.” 

There’s a lot to unpack with that but Steve doesn’t even get the box open before Tony is striding back into the elevator. He didn’t even make himself a coffee. And all Steve can think, inelegantly, stumbling over it in his own head, is  _ oh no.  _

It’s nothing yet. But only not yet. 

The sun rises, inches its way through the floor to ceiling windows until it touches the edge of the newspaper, the to-go cup, casts its light over the left side of Steve’s already heated face, and with it brings a very simple, terrifyingly complex realization. 

One day soon he’s going to be in love with Tony Stark. 

And it’s bitter and rich, sweet on the tip of his tongue. 


End file.
